


Push Me, Pull Me (But I'm Still Standing)

by xbedhead



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Post-Skyfall, canon AU, dark!Bond, h/c, paranoid!Bond, someone has to take care of him
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:42:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbedhead/pseuds/xbedhead
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mallory may be the new "M" but he'll never understand Bond the way <i>she</i> did. After Skyfall, Bond is kept on a short leash, but what are Mallory's true motivations? And how can Q and Moneypenny help Bond through it all before he self-destructs?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work in progress, but it has stalled out. I'm hoping that, by posting what I have so far, it will motivate me to finish it. It's unbeta'd and con-crit/observations are welcome.

He must be incredibly absorbed in his work – not that it doesn’t require it; a microprocessor capable of bringing down a world superpower designed to fit in a lapel pin requires a level of precision that’s making his eyes cross above the microscope – because he hears nothing out of the ordinary until the latest edition of his Walther is laid to rest on the stainless steel surface next to his elbow. 

The snub barrel is full of nicks and scratches and coated in some sort of sticky fluid that’s shining against the matted finish.

But it’s back.

And so is Bond.

“It still works,” he says, boredom dripping from every syllable.

Q hesitates while basic psychology 101 crib notes rattle through his thoughts. Does he reward Bond on a job well done, hoping that positive reinforcement leads him to continue on this path of behavior or would Bond rail against such praise and make it a point to bring back nothing but pieces the next time? He still hasn’t quite figured out how this agent works, what makes him tick, so he settles on – 

“Do _you_? You look like hell.”

It’s true. He does.

Bond’s suit is rumpled, torn in some places with charring around the edge of the frayed fabric. His tie is missing and so are the top buttons of his shirt. There’s a trickle of dried blood down the side of his face, sourced from a cut somewhere above his hairline. There’s even more blood in the lines between his teeth when he smiles. 

“I’ll look my best tomorrow,” he says with a wink. The lightness of his voice doesn’t convey to his eyes.

And then he’s gone. 

The doors slide open without so much as a hiss and he disappears into the darkened corridor. Q lifts the gun, examines it from every angle and decides that the physical battering it took will not affect its performance, though he’ll make sure the techs at intake make it presentable once more. He sets it next to his computer to make a note to run diagnostics on the grip, make sure the embedded print software is still running. His hand comes way sticky, red, and he stares at it for a moment before looking up into the empty hall. 

It’s only then he realizes Bond had taken the route away from the medical office.

-*-*-*-

Sometimes he wonders if he was ready for this job.

He’d been Deputy Quartermaster for a whopping forty-seven days when MI-6 was blown up and his boss had been killed. He’d been in the third sub-basement looking up abandoned prototypes on personalized weaponry and hadn’t so much as felt the floor shudder. Another four minutes and his spleen would’ve disintegrated alongside his predecessor’s.

He was next in line and his superiors had asked him if he was prepared to take on responsibility.

What was he supposed to say? ‘No’ would’ve meant he wasn’t sure of his capabilities, didn’t think he had what it took to run a department – in other words, a lifetime of being the deputy, never the sheriff. While he was content to fiddle with his wires and codes and design new toys, he knew he’d eventually get bored playing the game, never able to decide which game he was to play in the first place. He’d admit to a bit of an ego, but he’d never had the desire to be top dog, to rule the roost, so to speak. He just wanted the freedom to work on what he wanted, when he wanted.

So he’d said yes.

And now here he is, hidden in a snow-filled alleyway in the back of a van outside a warehouse listening to a man struggle to take his last breath.

“007? Do you read me?”

His voice is just this side of steady, but the panic is creeping in around the edges. Should he call in waiting reinforcements? Is Bond all right? Has the external been recovered? He has no idea, so he asks once more, a little louder, “007, do you copy?”

There are several dull ‘thwacks’ followed by a sickening _crunch_ and he actually winces, his nose twisting up and lips curling in disgust at the completely organic sound of someone’s trachea being crushed. Bond still hasn’t responded, though and his finger hovers above the button to send in extra agents.

“007, do you – ”

“Target eliminated,” comes a breathless reply over the comm. It sounds pained, out of breath as Bond orders, “Send the cleaners.”

“Copy,” Q says automatically, typing the command on the prompt screen with shaking fingers. From the side window he sees four men emerge from the shadows, dressed in black and moving quietly down the alley and up the fire escape. Three minutes later, Bond steps through the front door of the apartment building. He straightens the collar of his button down shirt and smoothes his hair, crossing the street and heading straight for the van.

The back door opens with a burst, letting in the frigid air from the outside. Within moments of being closed, though, the inside temperature is comfortable again, heated by the fortune of machinery stored inside.

“That sounded rough. Are you all right?” Q asks, adjusting his headphones so he can hear Bond and the sweeper team’s reports.

Bond gives him a look somewhere between frustrated and puzzled, then hands over the plastic box. “Can’t say what state it’s in. The fellow was rather attached to it,” he comments absently as he takes a seat on the crate behind the drivers seat and loosens his tie with several rough jerks. His knuckles are covered in blood and his fingers tremble, if only slightly, as he leans back in his seat and adjusts his suit jacket.

In the quiet of the van, the only noise Q can hear is the clacking of his fingers against the keyboard and the stuttering thump of what he’s sure is Bond’s heart.


	2. Chapter 2

-*-*-*-

“If you don’t trust me, then don’t bloody use me.”

Q and Eve don’t try to hide their mild shock as Bond storms out of M’s office. Through the glass wall, they see him take the stairs two at a time and disappear into the cavernous main corridor of the new MI-6.

Q is still staring out the oak-paneled door left open during Bond’s exit when he asks, “Is the vending machine in the lounge spoiled again?”

Eve is busy again, sorting through papers and selecting some to place in the filing cabinet as she explains quietly, “He thinks Mallory is keeping a tight leash on him here in London.”

Come to think of it, Bond had been sent of a number of mundane missions in or around London in the weeks following the events at the Skyfall lodge. Q hadn’t been in charge of mission support long enough to determine whether that was odd or just the luck of the draw. He casts another glance at the door and ignores the itch of his bangs on his forehead in favor of asking, “And is he?”

“Yes, of course,” Eve replies, slightly louder and as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He doesn’t have the same soft spot the old M had for the man.”

Q stiffens and adjusts his hold on the files at his chest. He feels a strange need to speak up on the agent’s behalf. “007 is more than capable of handling himself in the field.”

Eve gives Q a withering look, despite her own affection for James Bond. “Mallory doesn’t see it that way. Bond passed the new round of physicals but refused another psychological exam. He’s on house arrest until further notice.”

Q pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Eve closes the filing cabinet and takes a seat behind the expanse of her mahogany desk. “It means until Bond starts cooperating, he’s in the doghouse.”

-*-*-*-

She watches, completely mesmerized by the rhythm of gunfire. Holes form a neat circle around the center of the target, puckering the paper to the point that only bits and pieces are keeping a swath the size of a fist intact.

When Bond presses the button and the machine reels back his target paper, she lets the door close behind her. He jumps a little and removes the noise mufflers. “Bad practice to sneak up on an agent with a loaded weapon.”

She gives him a sultry grin he doesn’t see and slinks down the darkened stairwell into the well-lit firing chamber. “I’ll take my chances with you.”

“Should I be worried, you behind my back and all?” he asks over his shoulder as he reloads. 

She tips her chin toward the paper. “Keep your eye on the target. You’ll be fine.”

She puts her own ear mufflers down on the sand bags and pulls out her Glock-19, aware on some level that he’s watching her. It doesn’t really matter, though – she checks her clip and locks in the magazine, catching his eyes two seconds before he breaks contact and faces his target once more.

“I thought you’d sworn off field duty,” Bond remarks as he takes aim. When Eve says nothing in reply, he turns toward her, quirking an eyebrow.

She leans her body toward him and rests her elbow against the wall of sandbags. “You of all people should know the power of recoil when one’s mind needs soothing.”

Bond stiffens, rolling his shoulders once before focusing on the paper body fifteen yards in front of him. “Careful there – Mallory will have you behind a table getting your head examined.”

He fires ten rounds in rapid succession.

The bullets weren’t nearly as close to the center of the target this time – by no means were they as off as they’d been when Bond returned from his….sabbatical, but nowhere near where they should’ve been.

“Performance anxiety?”

“That would imply I was trying to put on a show for you,” he replies, skillfully evading the question as he moves to distract her by taking a step closer. “I could. If you want?”

She gives him a once over and ends at his eyes, a smile in her own. She takes her gun in both hands as she turns and assumes her stance. “Don’t think I could afford it on my salary.”

“A matinee then?” Bond asks, leaning close, but keeping just outside her personal space.

She fires her weapon seventeen times and Bond has the good graces not to look impressed by the dozen or so holes around the center. They’re silent as the conveyor returns her sheet and she untacks it, looking over the marks.

“Are you saying James Bond has cheap seats?”

“I’m saying you can sit anywhere you like.”

He’s dragging the joke out as long as he can and they both know it. She grins at him and looks away, suddenly shy. While her eyes are down, she catches the way he clenches his fist around the grip of his gun.

When she lifts her head, he’s staring at her with a look she can’t quite identify. For lack of a better question, she asks, “Are you finished?”

“Why? Taking notes?”

She cocks her head at him, unsure of how to take that. There’s still a lightness in his voice, but it’s betrayed by the glint in his eyes.


End file.
